The Red Bird

Out upon a nameless sea sailed a sturdy old boat with a sturdy old man at its helm.

For this man, weeks do not exist. Nor do months, or even years. All that matters is the rising and the setting of the sun signaling the end of yet another nameless day. It would be impossible to measure how long this man had been at sea; if you asked him he would shrug and shake his head helplessly. It would also be impossible to determine just how old his boat was, or how old he was, as the years so seamlessly blended with one another to mark an immeasurable span of time. All that could be determined was that his boat was a faithful one, valiant against the unforgiving sea, and that he was just as headstrong, and just as valiant.

They eked out a living upon the rolling blue desert, the boat and the man, fishing for food whilst also maintaining a small vegetable patch out on the deck. Water was never an issue, as wherever he sailed it would eventually rain and the cabin’s roof would catch and deposit the rainwater into his tank. On the days his tank water would run low or empty, which admittedly were quite rare, he would drink filtered salt water and grit his teeth at the taste. On the days where he would catch no fish, he would eat only what was ripe in his garden.

All in all, it was a comfortable life the old man led, free from worries and troubles apart from the immediate concerns of storms, food shortages, and droughts. But if you were to ask this old man why he did it, why he lived a life out on the ocean and not on land like regular mammals, he wouldn’t be able to give you an answer, as the reason was as forgotten as his name and the shapes of dogs, cats and mice. This was the only life he now knew, and would forever know until he passed away and his loyal boat was finally claimed by the relentless ocean.

It was during one of his fishing sessions that he saw it. A dark spot in the sky casting a small shadow on the still blue water. Silhouetted against the sun, the old man could not see much, but the figure drew closer and landed softly on the bow of the boat. It was a bird. A small bird with rich red feathers, a bright yellow beak and wide eyes that looked as if they were examining every inch of the deck. It chirped once and hopped down off the bow and continued to hop across the deck, its beak scratching into the hard wood stained with fish blood. It chirped again and the old man laughed a laugh that hadn’t been heard by anything other than the fish and the dolphins in many, many years. The red bird tweeted and hopped back onto the bow, its head bobbing and twisting around itself at the sound of the laugh. It then chirped one last time and took off, its wings fluttering madly as it grew smaller and smaller until eventually it disappeared entirely. The old man sighed and shook his head. A small part of him knew that this meant he was close to land, and that part desperately wanted to go back and see it again.

For a while the old man didn’t move, contemplating on which direction he should go. If he continued his course he would soon reach land, but he knew there was a reason he left land in the first place, if only he could remember it. The old man sighed again, lowered his sails and entered the cabin, his mind made up.

He would let the sea decide.